Animal Farm by George Orwell

particulars of the latest increases in the production of foodstuffs, and on
occasion a shot was fired from the gun. The sheep were the greatest
devotees of the Spontaneous Demonstration, and if anyone complained
(as a few animals sometimes did, when no pigs or dogs were near) that
they wasted time and meant a lot of standing about in the cold, the
sheep were sure to silence him with a tremendous bleating of "Four legs
good, two legs bad!" But by and large the animals enjoyed these
celebrations. They found it comforting to be reminded that, after all,
they were truly their own masters and that the work they did was for
their own benefit. So that, what with the songs, the processions,
Squealer's lists of figures, the thunder of the gun, the crowing of the
cockerel, and the fluttering of the flag, they were able to forget that
their bellies were empty, at least part of the time.
In April, Animal Farm was proclaimed a Republic, and it became
necessary to elect a President. There was only one candidate, Napoleon,
who was elected unanimously. On the same day it was given out that
fresh documents had been discovered which revealed further details
about Snowball's complicity with Jones. It now appeared that Snowball
had not, as the animals had previously imagined, merely attempted to
lose the Battle of the Cowshed by means of a stratagem, but had been
openly fighting on Jones's side. In fact, it was he who had actually been
the leader of the human forces, and had charged into battle with the
words "Long live Humanity!" on his lips. The wounds on Snowball's
back, which a few of the animals still remembered to have seen, had
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been inflicted by Napoleon's teeth.
In the middle of the summer Moses the raven suddenly reappeared on
the farm, after an absence of several years. He was quite unchanged,
still did no work, and talked in the same strain as ever about
Sugarcandy Mountain. He would perch on a stump, flap his black
wings, and talk by the hour to anyone who would listen. "Up there,
comrades," he would say solemnly, pointing to the sky with his large
beak-"up there, just on the other side of that dark cloud that you can
see-there it lies, Sugarcandy Mountain, that happy country where we
poor animals shall rest for ever from our labours!" He even claimed to
have been there on one of his higher flights, and to have seen the
everlasting fields of clover and the linseed cake and lump sugar
growing on the hedges. Many of the animals believed him. Their lives
now, they reasoned, were hungry and laborious; was it not right and
just that a better world should exist somewhere else? A thing that was
difficult to determine was the attitude of the pigs towards Moses. They
all declared contemptuously that his stories about Sugarcandy
Mountain were lies, and yet they allowed him to remain on the farm,
not working, with an allowance of a gill of beer a day.
After his hoof had healed up, Boxer worked harder than ever. Indeed,
all the animals worked like slaves that year. Apart from the regular
work of the farm, and the rebuilding of the windmill, there was the
schoolhouse for the young pigs, which was started in March.
Sometimes the long hours on insufficient food were hard to bear, but
Boxer never faltered. In nothing that he said or did was there any sign
that his strength was not what it had been. It was only his appearance
that was a little altered; his hide was less shiny than it had used to be,
and his great haunches seemed to have shrunken. The others said,
"Boxer will pick up when the spring grass comes on"; but the spring
came and Boxer grew no fatter. Sometimes on the slope leading to the
top of the quarry, when he braced his muscles against the weight of
some vast boulder, it seemed that nothing kept him on his feet except
the will to continue. At such times his lips were seen to form the words,
"I will work harder"; he had no voice left. Once again Clover and
Benjamin warned him to take care of his health, but Boxer paid no
attention. His twelfth birthday was approaching. He did not care what
happened so long as a good store of stone was accumulated before he
went on pension.
Late one evening in the summer, a sudden rumour ran round the farm
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that something had happened to Boxer. He had gone out alone to drag a
load of stone down to the windmill. And sure enough, the rumour was
true. A few minutes later two pigeons came racing in with the news:
"Boxer has fallen! He is lying on his side and can't get up!"
About half the animals on the farm rushed out to the knoll where the
windmill stood. There lay Boxer, between the shafts of the cart, his
neck stretched out, unable even to raise his head. His eyes were glazed,
his sides matted with sweat. A thin stream of blood had trickled out of
his mouth. Clover dropped to her knees at his side.
"Boxer!" she cried, "how are you?"
"It is my lung," said Boxer in a weak voice. "It does not matter. I think
you will be able to finish the windmill without me. There is a pretty
good store of stone accumulated. I had only another month to go in any
case. To tell you the truth, I had been looking forward to my retirement.
And perhaps, as Benjamin is growing old too, they will let him retire at
the same time and be a companion to me."
"We must get help at once," said Clover. "Run, somebody, and tell
Squealer what has happened."
All the other animals immediately raced back to the farmhouse to give
Squealer the news. Only Clover remained, and Benjamin7 who lay
down at Boxer's side, and, without speaking, kept the flies off him with
his long tail. After about a quarter of an hour Squealer appeared, full of
sympathy and concern. He said that Comrade Napoleon had learned
with the very deepest distress of this misfortune to one of the most
loyal workers on the farm, and was already making arrangements to
send Boxer to be treated in the hospital at Willingdon. The animals felt
a little uneasy at this. Except for Mollie and Snowball, no other animal
had ever left the farm, and they did not like to think of their sick
comrade in the hands of human beings. However, Squealer easily
convinced them that the veterinary surgeon in Willingdon could treat
Boxer's case more satisfactorily than could be done on the farm. And
about half an hour later, when Boxer had somewhat recovered, he was
with difficulty got on to his feet, and managed to limp back to his stall,
where Clover and Benjamin had prepared a good bed of straw for him.
For the next two days Boxer remained in his stall. The pigs had sent out
a large bottle of pink medicine which they had found in the medicine
chest in the bathroom, and Clover administered it to Boxer twice a day
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after meals. In the evenings she lay in his stall and talked to him, while
Benjamin kept the flies off him. Boxer professed not to be sorry for
what had happened. If he made a good recovery, he might expect to live
another three years, and he looked forward to the peaceful days that he
would spend in the corner of the big pasture. It would be the first time
that he had had leisure to study and improve his mind. He intended, he
said, to devote the rest of his life to learning the remaining twenty-two
letters of the alphabet.
However, Benjamin and Clover could only be with Boxer after working
hours, and it was in the middle of the day when the van came to take
him away. The animals were all at work weeding turnips under the
supervision of a pig, when they were astonished to see Benjamin come
galloping from the direction of the farm buildings, braying at the top of
his voice. It was the first time that they had ever seen Benjamin
excited-indeed, it was the first time that anyone had ever seen him
gallop. "Quick, quick!" he shouted. "Come at once! They're taking
Boxer away!" Without waiting for orders from the pig, the animals
broke off work and raced back to the farm buildings. Sure enough,
there in the yard was a large closed van, drawn by two horses, with
lettering on its side and a sly-looking man in a low-crowned bowler hat
sitting on the driver's seat. And Boxer's stall was empty.
The animals crowded round the van. "Good-bye, Boxer!" they
chorused, "good-bye!"
"Fools! Fools!" shouted Benjamin, prancing round them and stamping
the earth with his small hoofs. "Fools! Do you not see what is written
on the side of that van?"
That gave the animals pause, and there was a hush. Muriel began to
spell out the words. But Benjamin pushed her aside and in the midst of
a deadly silence he read:
" 'Alfred Simmonds, Horse Slaughterer and Glue Boiler, Willingdon.
Dealer in Hides and Bone-Meal. Kennels Supplied.' Do you not
understand what that means? They are taking Boxer to the knacker's! "
A cry of horror burst from all the animals. At this moment the man on
the box whipped up his horses and the van moved out of the yard at a
smart trot. All the animals followed, crying out at the tops of their
voices. Clover forced her way to the front. The van began to gather
speed. Clover tried to stir her stout limbs to a gallop, and achieved a
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canter. "Boxer!" she cried. "Boxer! Boxer! Boxer!" And just at this
moment, as though he had heard the uproar outside, Boxer's face, with
the white stripe down his nose, appeared at the small window at the
back of the van.
"Boxer!" cried Clover in a terrible voice. "Boxer! Get out! Get out
quickly! They're taking you to your death!"
All the animals took up the cry of "Get out, Boxer, get out!" But the
van was already gathering speed and drawing away from them. It was
uncertain whether Boxer had understood what Clover had said. But a
moment later his face disappeared from the window and there was the
sound of a tremendous drumming of hoofs inside the van. He was
trying to kick his way out. The time had been when a few kicks from
Boxer's hoofs would have smashed the van to matchwood. But alas! his
strength had left him; and in a few moments the sound of drumming
hoofs grew fainter and died away. In desperation the animals began
appealing to the two horses which drew the van to stop. "Comrades,
comrades!" they shouted. "Don't take your own brother to his death! "
But the stupid brutes, too ignorant to realise what was happening,
merely set back their ears and quickened their pace. Boxer's face did
not reappear at the window. Too late, someone thought of racing ahead
and shutting the five-barred gate; but in another moment the van was
through it and rapidly disappearing down the road. Boxer was never
seen again.
Three days later it was announced that he had died in the hospital at
Willingdon, in spite of receiving every attention a horse could have.
Squealer came to announce the news to the others. He had, he said,
been present during Boxer's last hours.
"It was the most affecting sight I have ever seen!" said Squealer, lifting
his trotter and wiping away a tear. "I was at his bedside at the very last.
And at the end, almost too weak to speak, he whispered in my ear that
his sole sorrow was to have passed on before the windmill was finished.
'Forward, comrades!' he whispered. 'Forward in the name of the
Rebellion. Long live Animal Farm! Long live Comrade Napoleon!
Napoleon is always right.' Those were his very last words, comrades."
Here Squealer's demeanour suddenly changed. He fell silent for a
moment, and his little eyes darted suspicious glances from side to side
before he proceeded.
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It had come to his knowledge, he said, that a foolish and wicked rumour
had been circulated at the time of Boxer's removal. Some of the animals
had noticed that the van which took Boxer away was marked "Horse
Slaughterer," and had actually jumped to the conclusion that Boxer was
being sent to the knacker's. It was almost unbelievable, said Squealer,
that any animal could be so stupid. Surely, he cried indignantly,
whisking his tail and skipping from side to side, surely they knew their
beloved Leader, Comrade Napoleon, better than that? But the
explanation was really very simple. The van had previously been the
property of the knacker, and had been bought by the veterinary surgeon,
who had not yet painted the old name out. That was how the mistake
had arisen.
The animals were enormously relieved to hear this. And when Squealer
went on to give further graphic details of Boxer's death-bed, the
admirable care he had received, and the expensive medicines for which
Napoleon had paid without a thought as to the cost, their last doubts
disappeared and the sorrow that they felt for their comrade's death was
tempered by the thought that at least he had died happy.
Napoleon himself appeared at the meeting on the following Sunday
morning and pronounced a short oration in Boxer's honour. It had not
been possible, he said, to bring back their lamented comrade's remains
for interment on the farm, but he had ordered a large wreath to be made
from the laurels in the farmhouse garden and sent down to be placed on
Boxer's grave. And in a few days' time the pigs intended to hold a
memorial banquet in Boxer's honour. Napoleon ended his speech with a
reminder of Boxer's two favourite maxims, "I will work harder" and
"Comrade Napoleon is always right"-maxims, he said, which every
animal would do well to adopt as his own.
On the day appointed for the banquet, a grocer's van drove up from
Willingdon and delivered a large wooden crate at the farmhouse. That
night there was the sound of uproarious singing, which was followed by
what sounded like a violent quarrel and ended at about eleven o'clock
with a tremendous crash of glass. No one stirred in the farmhouse
before noon on the following day, and the word went round that from
somewhere or other the pigs had acquired the money to buy themselves
another case of whisky.
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X
YEARS passed. The seasons came and went, the short animal lives fled
by. A time came when there was no one who remembered the old days
before the Rebellion, except Clover, Benjamin, Moses the raven, and a
number of the pigs.
Muriel was dead; Bluebell, Jessie, and Pincher were dead. Jones too
was dead-he had died in an inebriates' home in another part of the
country. Snowball was forgotten. Boxer was forgotten, except by the
few who had known him. Clover was an old stout mare now, stiff in the
joints and with a tendency to rheumy eyes. She was two years past the
retiring age, but in fact no animal had ever actually retired. The talk of
setting aside a corner of the pasture for superannuated animals had long
since been dropped. Napoleon was now a mature boar of twenty-four
stone. Squealer was so fat that he could with difficulty see out of his
eyes. Only old Benjamin was much the same as ever, except for being a
little greyer about the muzzle, and, since Boxer's death, more morose
and taciturn than ever.
There were many more creatures on the farm now, though the increase
was not so great as had been expected in earlier years. Many animals
had been born to whom the Rebellion was only a dim tradition, passed
on by word of mouth, and others had been bought who had never heard
mention of such a thing before their arrival. The farm possessed three
horses now besides Clover. They were fine upstanding beasts, willing
workers and good comrades, but very stupid. None of them proved able
to learn the alphabet beyond the letter B. They accepted everything that
they were told about the Rebellion and the principles of Animalism,
especially from Clover, for whom they had an almost filial respect; but
it was doubtful whether they understood very much of it.
The farm was more prosperous now, and better organised: it had even
been enlarged by two fields which had been bought from Mr.
Pilkington. The windmill had been successfully completed at last, and
the farm possessed a threshing machine and a hay elevator of its own,
and various new buildings had been added to it. Whymper had bought
himself a dogcart. The windmill, however, had not after all been used
for generating electrical power. It was used for milling corn, and
brought in a handsome money profit. The animals were hard at work
building yet another windmill; when that one was finished, so it was
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said, the dynamos would be installed. But the luxuries of which
Snowball had once taught the animals to dream, the stalls with electric
light and hot and cold water, and the three-day week, were no longer
talked about. Napoleon had denounced such ideas as contrary to the
spirit of Animalism. The truest happiness, he said, lay in working hard
and living frugally.
Somehow it seemed as though the farm had grown richer without
making the animals themselves any richer-except, of course, for the
pigs and the dogs. Perhaps this was partly because there were so many
pigs and so many dogs. It was not that these creatures did not work,
after their fashion. There was, as Squealer was never tired of
explaining, endless work in the supervision and organisation of the
farm. Much of this work was of a kind that the other animals were too
ignorant to understand. For example, Squealer told them that the pigs
had to expend enormous labours every day upon mysterious things
called "files," "reports," "minutes," and "memoranda." These were large
sheets of paper which had to be closely covered with writing, and as
soon as they were so covered, they were burnt in the furnace. This was
of the highest importance for the welfare of the farm, Squealer said. But
still, neither pigs nor dogs produced any food by their own labour; and
there were very many of them, and their appetites were always good.
As for the others, their life, so far as they knew, was as it had always
been. They were generally hungry, they slept on straw, they drank from
the pool, they laboured in the fields; in winter they were troubled by the
cold, and in summer by the flies. Sometimes the older ones among
them racked their dim memories and tried to determine whether in the
early days of the Rebellion, when Jones's expulsion was still recent,
things had been better or worse than now. They could not remember.
There was nothing with which they could compare their present lives:
they had nothing to go upon except Squealer's lists of figures, which
invariably demonstrated that everything was getting better and better.
The animals found the problem insoluble; in any case, they had little
time for speculating on such things now. Only old Benjamin professed
to remember every detail of his long life and to know that things never
had been, nor ever could be much better or much worse-hunger,
hardship, and disappointment being, so he said, the unalterable law of
life.
And yet the animals never gave up hope. More, they never lost, even
for an instant, their sense of honour and privilege in being members of
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Animal Farm. They were still the only farm in the whole county-in all
England!-owned and operated by animals. Not one of them, not even
the youngest, not even the newcomers who had been brought from
farms ten or twenty miles away, ever ceased to marvel at that. And
when they heard the gun booming and saw the green flag fluttering at
the masthead, their hearts swelled with imperishable pride, and the talk
turned always towards the old heroic days, the expulsion of Jones, the
writing of the Seven Commandments, the great battles in which the
human invaders had been defeated. None of the old dreams had been
abandoned. The Republic of the Animals which Major had foretold,
when the green fields of England should be untrodden by human feet,
was still believed in. Some day it was coming: it might not be soon, it
might not be with in the lifetime of any animal now living, but still it
was coming. Even the tune of Beasts of England was perhaps hummed
secretly here and there: at any rate, it was a fact that every animal on
the farm knew it, though no one would have dared to sing it aloud. It
might be that their lives were hard and that not all of their hopes had
been fulfilled; but they were conscious that they were not as other
animals. If they went hungry, it was not from feeding tyrannical human
beings; if they worked hard, at least they worked for themselves. No
creature among them went upon two legs. No creature called any other
creature "Master." All animals were equal.
One day in early summer Squealer ordered the sheep to follow him, and
led them out to a piece of waste ground at the other end of the farm,
which had become overgrown with birch saplings. The sheep spent the
whole day there browsing at the leaves under Squealer's supervision. In
the evening he returned to the farmhouse himself, but, as it was warm
weather, told the sheep to stay where they were. It ended by their
remaining there for a whole week, during which time the other animals
saw nothing of them. Squealer was with them for the greater part of
every day. He was, he said, teaching them to sing a new song, for
which privacy was needed.
It was just after the sheep had returned, on a pleasant evening when the
animals had finished work and were making their way back to the farm
buildings, that the terrified neighing of a horse sounded from the yard.
Startled, the animals stopped in their tracks. It was Clover's voice. She
neighed again, and all the animals broke into a gallop and rushed into
the yard. Then they saw what Clover had seen.
It was a pig walking on his hind legs.
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Yes, it was Squealer. A little awkwardly, as though not quite used to
supporting his considerable bulk in that position, but with perfect
balance, he was strolling across the yard. And a moment later, out from
the door of the farmhouse came a long file of pigs, all walking on their
hind legs. Some did it better than others, one or two were even a trifle
unsteady and looked as though they would have liked the support of a
stick, but every one of them made his way right round the yard
successfully. And finally there was a tremendous baying of dogs and a
shrill crowing from the black cockerel, and out came Napoleon himself,
majestically upright, casting haughty glances from side to side, and
with his dogs gambolling round him.
He carried a whip in his trotter.
There was a deadly silence. Amazed, terrified, huddling together, the
animals watched the long line of pigs march slowly round the yard. It
was as though the world had turned upside-down. Then there came a
moment when the first shock had worn off and when, in spite of
everything-in spite of their terror of the dogs, and of the habit,
developed through long years, of never complaining, never criticising,
no matter what happened-they might have uttered some word of protest.
But just at that moment, as though at a signal, all the sheep burst out
into a tremendous bleating of-
"Four legs good, two legs better! Four legs good, two legs better! Four
legs good, two legs better!"
It went on for five minutes without stopping. And by the time the sheep
had quieted down, the chance to utter any protest had passed, for the
pigs had marched back into the farmhouse.
Benjamin felt a nose nuzzling at his shoulder. He looked round. It was
Clover. Her old eyes looked dimmer than ever. Without saying
anything, she tugged gently at his mane and led him round to the end of
the big barn, where the Seven Commandments were written. For a
minute or two they stood gazing at the tatted wall with its white
lettering.
"My sight is failing," she said finally. "Even when I was young I could
not have read what was written there. But it appears to me that that wall
looks different. Are the Seven Commandments the same as they used to
be, Benjamin?"
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For once Benjamin consented to break his rule, and he read out to her
what was written on the wall. There was nothing there now except a
single Commandment. It ran: